Smoke and Mirrors
by Makalaure
Summary: Uldor never wanted this.


Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's works.

Warning for violence, profanity, and mature themes.

Smoke and Mirrors

He winces when his mother applies a wet cloth to the cut on his head. The bleeding has stopped, but it still hurts as if there is a knife wedged in his flesh. A whiff of ground herbs stings his nose, and he suppresses a sneeze.

"Did you fight?" she asks again, wringing out the cloth with her callused hands.

"No." He fidgets, avoiding her gleaming, dark eyes. When he can no longer bear the immense weight of her gaze on him, he says, "Well, I didn't start it. They tried to attack Ulfast. Orcs are beasts. I said they could hit me instead, but I didn't think they would do it." He crosses his arms over his chest, frowning at his lap.

His mother's jaw tightens, and she shakes her head. "This is not the first time." She throws the cloth into the nearby wooden bowl. Uldor wonders if she will start to talk about how her husband tends to make terrible life choices (save marrying her), but she only says, "How much does it hurt now?"

"Not much. Do not worry." His temple throbs. He is sure that if he stands up, he will fall down almost at once. So he sits still, cross-legged on the ground, while his mother gets up to put the cloth and the bowl away in the wooden cabinet beside the open door. Uldor's stomach grumbles; he wishes it were time for the evening meal. His mouth waters at the thought of steaming lamb stew.

There is a sound of shuffling feet, and in a moment Ulfast settles himself into his lap, sticking his thumb in his mouth. He has forgotten to leave his shoes by the door again. His soft, shoulder-length hair is a mess, and flecked with filth. He nestles into Uldor's chest, meek as a dormouse, and Uldor wraps an arm around him. "I'm sorry, big brother," he mumbles, and then swallows. "Are you angry with me?"

"I'm not."

"I'm sorry," Ulfast says in a tight voice.

"Sweet gods, don't you start crying now. I have had enough drama for one day." Soon there is a warm wetness spreading over his moth-eaten tunic, and he releases a sigh. Rocking back and forth might have worked to calm his little brother, but there is a sharp, persistent pain in his head, so he strokes Ulfast's hair instead.

His mother sits down on a wicker chair by the shelf and gives a small smile, as if accusing him of soft-heartedness. He rolls his eyes in a conspicuous fashion. "It's not as if I _like_ him," he says. Then he grins and shrugs, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "But I know you love me more, in any case."

"Incorrigible brat," his mother returns, but not unkindly.

* * *

He sits by her on the cool earth outside the hut, and pulls his knees to his chest. Aliye releases a soft sigh and massages her brow. Her cheeks are sunken, and her long hair is thin and tangled. She still has a skin of that vile alcohol in one hand – that fermented mare's milk that he hates so much. She had filched it from her father's cabinet. Before Uldor can say anything, she lifts a long finger. "Don't you tell me what to do," she slurs. "I don't want to...to hear it." She hiccups, not bothering to cover her mouth.

"I just..." Uldor rests his head against the wall of the hut and chews his lower lip. "Your mother would not have wanted this."

"My mother is dead. I don't care about anything now." She takes another swig and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Her two wooden bracelets make a soft _clack clack_ sound. She turns the skin over in her fingers and studies it with an odd expression. "I wonder if I have the same disease." Then she licks her cracked lips; there is a speck of blood at the corner of her mouth. "Father lost her ashes somewhere."

"I'm sorry. I really am. You're deathly pale. Won't you eat something? I have dried meat in my cabinet."

She closes her eyes, as if she intends to fall asleep right there. For a while, there is no sound but the creaking of insects and the wind through the tall grass. Uldor stands up. Somehow, he manages to get her inside her hut, onto her bed. Her father is nowhere to be seen. A surge of anger sweeps through Uldor, and for a brief moment he wishes he could break that drunkard's jaw. He sucks in a long breath to calm himself.

When he returns home, his mother is waiting for him, sitting on a large cushion with her legs crossed. A lamp on a stool sheds yellow light on her sharp-featured face. Uldor's brothers and his father are rolled in their blankets, snoring. "Forgive me for coming home late," he says in a quiet voice, as he takes off his shoes. "I was with a friend."

His mother narrows her eyes, but does not move from her place. "The one wasting her life away? Your help means nothing to her."

Uldor does not reply, but slides into his bed, crossing his arms behind his head and staring at the ceiling. He thinks of Aliye, of her hunched shoulders and her gap-toothed smile, of the way she would make inappropriate jokes about everything and everyone. During their long conversations, their hands would sometimes brush together.

She has not worn that hideous red ribbon that she loves so much in a while.

When she dies three days later, Uldor sits at the edge of his bed and stares at the cabinet, where his father always keeps a bottle of strong alcohol. The afternoon sunlight streams through the open window and warms his back. It would be nice to forget for a while – worth the headache later on. His father would cuff his ears, but perhaps that would not be so bad.

Something tugs at his trousers, and he looks down to find Ulwarth gazing at him with his large, thick-lashed eyes. His cheeks, which are usually a warm sepia hue, have two bright spots on them. "Brother, are you sad?" he says in his high-pitched voice. "Don't be sad."

"I am not sad," says Uldor, and picks him up, putting him on his lap.

"I can sing you a song. I'm not as good as Mama, but I'll sing."

"That's sweet of you. Go on, then."

Uldor struggles not to appear distracted as his youngest brother sings a lullaby in his high voice, frequently forgetting the words but carrying on happily.

* * *

From atop his bay horse, he grasps his mother's fist and kisses the metal ring on her finger. Age has put frost in her hair but not taken the fire from her heart. "It will be fine," he says, looking her in the eye, striving to maintain a steady voice. "No one will die."

"It is a war, Uldor," she says. She tugs her brocaded shawl over her shoulders to protect herself from the gale. "People will die."

* * *

Another boot strikes his stomach, and he retches, strands of hair sticking to his split lips. He cannot tell if he feels nothing, or if there is so much pain that his senses are confused. His nose is clogged with blood, and he has to breathe through his mouth. The terror and humiliation has long since dissipated; he just wants the beating to stop.

"Look here, you," says one of the soldiers. He speaks Uldor's tongue with a strange accent, almost lazy in its lilting quality, as if he cares for neither its precision nor its raw beauty.

Uldor's vision is blurred. He can barely see through his one eye that has not been punched. "We don't want Easterling scum sullying our lands," continues the ellon. "Don't you dare faint! I'm not done with you."

Raucous laughs and jeers. Uldor wonders, vaguely, if his two men are still alive. He rests his elbow on the ground and struggles to raise himself up, but a wave of nausea sweeps over him and he collapses once more, spitting out a string of blood. A cracked tooth tumbles out of his mouth.

He doesn't know when he lost consciousness, but when he opens his good eye again, he is propped against a wall, facing Amon Ereb's immense fortress, his legs splayed before him. Icy rain patters down from the slate-grey sky, drenching his torn, stained clothes. How long has it been? An hour, a day? He gives a soft groan, and tries to move his fingers; at least those are working.

A little distance ahead, a tall ellon in a deep green mantle – probably a son of Fëanor, judging by his stance and his presence – is speaking in a harsh manner to a group of soldiers, who are shuffling their feet and doing their best to avoid his eyes.

The ellon's gaze falls on Uldor, and he switches languages, from Sindarin – that is what they speak, is it not? – to Uldor's tongue. "He's a _boy_! What is he, fifteen? Younger? How dare you!"

"We – "

"Silence! If you make another excuse, I'll rip out your tongue." Without waiting for a response, the elf leaves the soldiers and advances to Uldor. He hunkers down, brow furrowed deeply in worry. He is so clean: clean, hairless chin and clean clothes with clean lines. His skin is white, as if it has never felt the warmth of the sun, but his long, braided hair is as dark as Uldor's own.

Uldor is too drained to shrink back in fear; every shred of strength seems to have left his body.

"I am so sorry," the ellon says, putting a hand on Uldor's shoulder. "We will get you inside, and you will be patched up."

* * *

"Why did your men attack me?" he says from his bed in the infirmary. It has been a few days since the incident in the courtyard, but he had woken up only an hour back.

Maglor says, "They are not my men; they are my brother's." He looks at Uldor, lip curled in an expression of vague disgust. "There are rumours," he says, "that you worship the Black Foe, that you eat your own young if they are deformed, and that you take every opportunity to rob and to kill, for pleasure alone – among other things. It is understandable that some of us fear you."

Uldor raises a hand to rub his throbbing temple, and then stops when he realises his head is bound with a thick bandage. He knows that 'Black Foe' is what elves call the Lord Melkor, so that first statement is at least somewhat true. The rest of it sounds like something a fiction-monger would fabricate to scare children. He does not want to know what the 'other things' are. "So, this," he says in a quiet voice, dropping his gaze to his lap. His fist clenches. "This is justifiable to you?"

"I never said that."

"I ride in carrying a white flag, unarmed save a knife at my belt, and as soon as I take off my helm, your soldiers drag me off my horse and beat me to within an inch of death. How is that understandable?" He draws a shuddering breath. "Or did your men say otherwise?"

Maglor's expression softens. "They did not; they will not lie to me."

There is a pause. "They are afraid of you?"

"Fear can be good in healthy doses."

"You sound like my father." Uldor sinks back into his pillow, suppressing a yawn; he is tired again. Why is he suddenly chattering to this kinslayer as if they are old friends? He must be drugged out of his mind. "Boring, and stern, and somewhat frightening," he mumbles. His eyelids seem to droop of their own accord, and he blinks a few times.

Maglor gives a smile that is surprising in its warmth, the corners of his eyes creasing. In that moment he looks aged, though there are no lines on his face, no hint of frost in his unbound hair. In a sleepy haze, Uldor wonders if he has children, if they are around his own age, and if they, too, are expected to partake in this godforsaken war.

* * *

Uldor holds the edge of a table to steady himself. "Attack them?" he says in a hoarse whisper, feeling faint. "You did not say we would attack them."

"First impressions are important, and you are a terrible liar," says his father, leaning back in his chair. The soft candlelight flicks across his face, making his features appear sharper than usual. He narrows his eyes, the way he does when he is feeling impatient. "What did you think we would do? Polish their armour and then die for them?"

"I didn't...I didn't think – "

"You never do."

Uldor feels tears sting his eyes, and blinks furiously to get rid of them. _Don't cry, don't_ cry _, you idiot._

His father tilts his head to one side and continues, "You realise our people are starving? We need new lands."

Uldor nods, feeling numb.

"Do you want a toll of the children who have died in the past three months? I can give you their names."

"Please don't," says Uldor, putting his head in his hands. He cannot listen to this. Before his father can say any more, he rushes out of the hut. Once outside, he leans heavily against the wall, panting, and wipes the sweat from his face with his tunic.

* * *

They grip his arm hard enough to leave violet bruises, and tell him he looks like dirt, that his thick, braided hair and the shape of his eyes make him ugly, practically a half-Orc. Uldor reminds himself that he has more important things to think about, and that he has never cared much for his appearance. But when he wakes at the cusp of dawn, he wears a long-sleeved tunic and a scarf to hide as much of his skin as possible, and avoids the Noldor's gazes.

* * *

Uldor rips the bottle from his brother's hand and slams it onto the table, and grasps him by the front of his tunic. "What do you think you're doing, you utter disgrace?"

Ulfast releases a hoarse laugh, not bothering to get himself free. "Trying to forget," he says.

"If our father saw you now – "

"He is not here, and you will not tell him."

" _Fuck you_." He lets go of his brother, who stumbles backwards and collapses onto a wicker stool beneath a latticed window. He begins to laugh again, quietly, and draws a hand over his eyes. He bows his head, shoulders shaking.

Uldor fights not to take a step back, or to leave. His skin puckers into gooseflesh. "Have you gone mad?"

After a long moment, Ulfast drops his hand and raises his head; fat tears are sliding down his cheeks, onto his dark stubble. "Mad? I haven't gone mad. This world has gone mad."

"Ulfast..."

"No, shut up," says Ulfast, holding up a long, brittle index finger. He coughs, and wags his mouth a few times, as if he is trying to find words to speak. "You know we are all going to die. I do not care for my own life, but what of my daughter?" His voice cracks and his face crumples. "I wish she could live."

Uldor's fingers twitch, and he averts his gaze. "She might. Melkor may keep his promise – "

"Spare me, brother." Ulfast leans back in the chair and draws a shuddering breath. Then, amid his tears, he gives a wide smile. "She – she's such a sweet little thing. Yesterday, did you know, she brought me a daisy – such a pretty daisy, too! And a white stone, as well. She said, oh listen, she said, 'They're for you; you can keep them.' And I picked her up and hugged her to my chest, and she got all indignant and told me to put her down."

"Ulfast...I – "

"No, listen. Why aren't you listening? Can't I speak about my daughter?" Ulfast says. Tears are still dribbling down his cheeks, dripping off his chin onto the floor. "I don't care if you find it boring. So I started to cry, and she asked if I was crying, and I told her no, it was just dirt..."

Uldor gives up and sits on the edge of the low, creaking bed, trying his best to appear interested. The sun dips in the sky, and the shadows lengthen in the dank, little chamber. His brother talks on and on about his daughter, and his wife, and how unworthy he is of both of them because they were such blessed, blessed people and he is just a flawed, incompetent sinner.

 _But I am the same, brother_ , Uldor thinks, rubbing his tired eyes. _I am the same._

At length Ulfast stops. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, as if he has clean run out of words to speak. The setting sun lends a bright glow to his face and his neck. He puts his large, callused hands on his lap and studies the stone floor, a deep furrow in his brow.

After a moment of hesitation, Uldor leans forward and clasps his brother's fingers.

* * *

Maglor blinks, lips pursed. "Uldor..." His tone is one of awe.

"I made it for you, since we are friends," says Uldor. He tries not to shuffle his feet or blush, and is sure he only manages to look constipated. With some difficulty, he maintains eye contact with Maglor, the way his mother always told him to do when giving someone a gift. _You're an emotional sop_ , he chastises himself _. You are going to regret this. A son of Fëanor is the last person you want to care about._

He shivers; for some reason, the Gap feels as cold as Amon Ereb.

Maglor takes the dagger, turning it over in his hands. He grasps the wooden handle, carved exquisitely in a swirling daisy bud design, and pulls the blade halfway out of its tough, leather sheath. It glimmers in the light of the candelabra, keen and strong.

"Please be careful while handling it. It is not for decoration," Uldor says.

"I can tell." Maglor slips the dagger back in its sheath, and then looks up and gives a tender smile that makes Uldor's heart squeeze. The crow's feet at the corners of his wide, dark eyes somehow soften his face. "Thank you, Uldor. I will take care of it." He grasps Uldor's shoulder, his hand warm and rough and reassuring, and then lets go.

* * *

The dawn is stained with carmine, and crows circle above their heads. Uldor stares at his father, blanching. "I cannot," he whispers. Maglor's careworn face comes to his mind. His grip on his sword slackens, and his knees weaken. "I cannot kill him. Please do not order me to." He swallows the bile that rises in his throat. "Father."

Ulfang is silent. Then closes his eyes and says, "If it pains you so greatly, I will not."

* * *

Death comes easy; he is not afraid of whatever may meet him. Around him, the world topples and turns in a swirl of blood and of clashing steel. As he falls to the reddened earth, he silently apologises to his mother for leaving her. The last thing he sees, before darkness claims him, is the gleam of Maglor's blade.

 _You obey your father. I obey mine._

-finis-


End file.
